His Mafia Queen

Deadly Questions

GABRIEL

Riley looks like the very definition of innocence and sweetness, with her big blue eyes and delicate features. But behind that beautiful façade is a sharp, curious mind, always seeking answers and looking for trouble.

Too curious, if you ask me. She's probably always getting herself into situations she can't get out of. Like now. She has no idea the emotions she's stirred up inside me, and I'm not even talking about lust.

I button up my black shirt and check my platinum cufflinks. Although today's Commission meeting is short and casual, we all keep up appearances. This means no tie, but a pressed designer shirt, and pants to match. For me, this means all black.

I'm in a sour mood after Riley's interview back there in the gym. Rarely do I discuss my grandfather, and I haven't mentioned my father in conversation in years. No one in the city dares utter his name in my presence, at least if they know what's good for them.

Riley's new, though. She doesn't know. It wasn't her fault—they were questions anyone would ask, common queries, hell, cocktail conversation, even. I'm tough and thick-skinned except when it comes to two things.

The grief I have over my grandfather's death, and the weight of guilt I have for my father.

I hate thinking about my father and what he did for me.

I can't help wondering if I would have been better off if he had never done anything for me.

The guilt and the shame flare together in my gut like a wildfire, and that leads to panic. It's like a physical weight inside me, a leaden thing that sits in the pit of my stomach and roils. It's hot and sharp, like a knife made of fire, and it cuts through me every time I move.

The panic is worse. It's a physical pain, a vise squeezing my chest and lungs until I can't breathe. It's a fear that grips me and won't let go, that threatens to overwhelm me and drag me under.

Even now, a half hour and a shower later, I'm still talking myself down. My father gave his life and his freedom for me, and I'll never forgive myself. It should be me sitting in that prison right now, but instead, it's him.

My cell phone buzzes, jarring me out of my anxiety-tinged thoughts. It's my driver, saying that he's ready with the car.

I head downstairs, my sunglasses on. The armor's firmly in place. I'm almost at the front door when I see a familiar flash of gold hair. It's Riley, and she's coming in from the pool, all sweaty and damp. Her skin is glistening in the filtered sunlight, and her hair is still wet. She smiles when she sees me, and I can't help but smile back.

Even though I'm wearing sunglasses, I can feel the heat of her gaze on me.

"Hey," she says breathlessly. "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

She looks me up and down, and a lopsided smile creeps on my face. She must like what she sees—I can tell by the way she gets flustered sometimes when she addresses me.

"Gabriel, I'm sorry if I upset you with my questions. It's just who I am. Sometimes I don't know when to stop."

She reaches out and lightly squeezes my forearm. Her touch isn't sexual. It's caring and warm, almost nurturing. My panic softens a bit, and now I feel like shit for being nasty to her.

"It's okay, tesoro. You're just doing your job." The Italian rolls off my tongue by instinct. Although, come to think of it, I've never called a woman that before. "Sorry to have snapped at you back in the gym. It's a sensitive subject."

"Tes. Oro?"

"Tesoro. It means treasure, loosely translated to darling. Sweetheart."

"That's quite...intimate." She chews on her plump bottom lip.